The Worst Poem I've Ever Written

I like that you feel like you can ask my mom if she'll pick you up some french fries on the way home.
I like that we can drink wine out of a box out of plastic cups and still feel rich.
I like that when I'm with you I feel like singing for the first time in God-knows-how-long.
I like that I'm not a very good singer but you still like to hear me sing.
I like that you like to play me music.

I like that even when you're playing me sad songs I can see a gleam in your eye, and you start adding extra swears to the lyrics and I know you're hoping, like I am, that we never give each other a real reason to sing those sad songs.

I like that the scars I'll have on my face after this won't feel like scars from an illness, but scars from face-planting on the asphalt falling over myself trying to grasp at you.

I like that I can tell you what I want.
I like that you somehow listen and you somehow care.
I like that you like the way I smell even when I haven't showered.
I like that you want me to be naked more but you don't mind that I don't want to be naked more.
I like that I can't seem to quite finish this poem because your lips on my hands are distracting me.

I like that you like what I like, and that you like me and I like you back.

76.

I watched you move farther away from me
through warped glass, and something strange
happened to my body. My fever began to
rise in the worst way. An unnamed ghost down
in my stomach let out a yelp, and forced
a streak of water down my cheek. This kind of
thing is foreign to me. My tear ducts are not flood-
gates; they are water faucets, and I had turned
them off. Somehow you found the bend in my hinge,
and now I am leaking. I collected the evidence
in a cup and threw it in the garbage, cheeks
burning not from sickness but from disbelief.

Someone you once kissed told me
I should be careful around you. I must
confess, I did not know that
this was what she meant.

75.

you stitch your fingertips into
my skin, not because
you want more from me, but
because you listen with
your hands

Cleaner

what happened was, I was
terrified and you were bamboo
steady and concrete strong

and the kiwi water in which you
bathed me lingered on my skin
for longer than I expected

what mattered was, I was
dissolving fast and you were staying
there behind me every time

and I felt cleaner than I
had in years, and I lost track
of my demons

what I'd wager is, you pulled
them out of my back one by
one when you pushed my muscles

and now all I have left is this
empty hole where they were, and
you fit perfectly there

74.

you were half-close up and up-
side down, your lips made abstract
in the daylight, into something like
two petals from a tulip
hesitant to bloom for fear
of the sun, and I had only
a mouth full of thorns
and you began to fall
asleep and dream, fighting off
some far-off threat with you finger-
tips and speaking tongues
I'd never heard before,
the slightest movements making
tremors float across your skin

we did nothing
for hours except remain
still and listen
to music written
for us

and I have never looked
uglier and you have never looked
more simple

73.

I'm not sure but I think
the first time I woke up
with you was the first time
I ever really woke up
at all

there is a shade of gold
that is reserved for the lamp
light we gave off at five-o-clock
in the morning, wine glasses in hand,
shushing each other about
the things we are afraid of, and
leaning in close

and when you break my heart
I will try to remember that
it was my idea
to give it to you
in the first place

72.

you throw me backwards
in time and somehow I am sixteen
again, waiting for my mother
to come home and making
out while we watch cartoons

and I am sitting scribbling
little words for you on little
paper planes, and throwing them
at the back of your head in class
and you punch my knee
under the desk

I feel stupid young
with you, all cloud animals
and daisy chains, and you
have eyes like I have never
seen, and I don't feel
like growing up anymore

Evening Ripping

you like my hard skin and you like
my crush, my angry
you like the space between us and
I like the way you let me
write my scary stories across your
back in blood

I like that you like
what no one else has
looked to like

you say you are afraid you are
going to tear my petals
off, or pull me into a frenzy
from which I would not soon
recover

(and I'd like to think I am
  not quite that fragile, but
  sometimes perhaps
  I am)

but then you bare your teeth
when I hate you, and I mean you
bare them in a grin
and I am laughing too
and we spend the evening ripping
each other's throats out

and I like that you like
me when I'm not
pretty, not
sweet, but
terrible
and strong
and gnashing
and spilling purple ink
across your skin

and I like what I see
in the mirror
when we are done

71.

spend your days
off with me
teach me how to stop
writing when I'm drunk
and help me
understand why this song
seems to breathe me
better than my own
lungs

you say any other
name and I close my
doors and within ten
minutes you have kicked
them down again
with some half-glance

and did I mention
that I am still
wearing your smoke
around my waist or
that it smells like you
beneath my
arms and legs?

spend your days off
with me because
those are the days
you can spend with anyone
and I can wait

70.

I only wanted you
to bring me the things you
love, and when you did, I
panicked and ran. And I am
sorry for that. But I am pre-programmed
to hate what you give to me.
Because you are too valuable
and I am too
afraid.
But I love the smell of your neck, and
the way your eyes look when I am
telling you something very
secret, and I love your hands and
fingers, and the way they feel against
mine. And I want you to love
the face I make when I am writing
about you, and I want you to
care about the strands of my hair
that fall on my shoulders, and the things
I say that I wish I
didn't. And I am frightened
of that.

69.

The unfair thing about poetry is
that you get to open up my head and
poke around inside, and I have
to hand over my mystery like a confiscated
bag, and my ribs swing apart for you
as if they were on hinges, and you can
stroke or squeeze or spit on
my heart while you're in there, and
your blue eyes can still hold oceans
and I don't even have a submarine, and
there's not a damn thing
I can do about it.

Waves

You said that sting rays
are the butterflies of the sea,
tracing dotted lines beneath the
water's surface, and
pulling solemn ripples with
their wings as they go.
And I said that sharks are
the kinds of mermaids I want
to be, hard and tactful, and
braver than a fisherman's hook.

I will bring you my shark teeth
if you teach me how to
make waves the way you do.

68.

I cannot provide for you
what you deserve at the moment,
so let us construct a
layaway program:
two kisses here,
three pool games there,
and fifteen neck rubs where I pull
the hair on the back of your head
the way you like.
And tell me whether that would
be enough for you, or whether
I should save up a bit more
money, time, and bite marks
with which to pay you
for the good you've done me, and
the light you've already brought
into my field of vision. Tell
me if this is enough. And
if it is not, I will gladly,
humbly and kindly,
offer you whatever is left
of me.

Astronomy

there are stars in your teeth and in your eyebrows
underneath your nails and in the beads
of sweat that rolled across our hands
and I found them, and no one
else knew they were there
but me

we made a constellation --
a galaxy of hot breath and
peach fuzz, and I have never been
so committed to astronomy

and in your natural state, you are
a purplish plume of cosmic dust
and all the loveliest things
are made of you:
auroras,
the spaces between words,
shadows,
and lamp light

now bring me my telescope
so that I may get a better look at
the ridges of your shoulder-
blades, and the place under
your tongue

for you are the chemical reaction
between bits of stardust
colliding to create
life

67.

the thing is,
I have a tendency
to overreact, and I fear
the habit is flaring up
and taking hold

and they say that the body
tricks the brain into loving, and
in the past they have been wrong
but now I think my skin,
since you have touched it, is
dragging my heart down as it sinks
into depths I cannot yet
plumb, so perhaps it is time
for me to take a salty breath
and drift

Dearly, Hopelessly

I have constructed something
around my chest that resembles
a gate shut tight, thorny vines
curled around each brass post
and I have reinforced the locks
with plaster and thick coiling wire
and it was not meant for you
but it will keep you out
(I hope, if all goes
according to plan)

but there is something in your
gray and slow
that brings back color
and I know I should wake up
from you, but you give
such beautiful dreams
and I know I should remember
all the other love notes you
are sending, but I cannot
quite see past your face
tonight

and so perhaps
it is too late for me
perhaps the locks
are easy for you to pick
perhaps I am
dearly, hopelessly
damned

66.

It's about time I stopped
biting my lip over you, but the blood
tastes like wine in my mouth
and I wanna get drunk.

So the sun took its course today
and it kicked my teeth in.

As usual.

The thing is, the moment
your name comes into
my line of vision, my
tongue finds the torn skin inside
my mouth, and more
blood vessels break.

I suppose I could cut
it out, but instead I will just
wait for something dark
to press my eyelids
closed.

65.

I take the butterflies that fall from your lips
and I pin them to the wall and I put them in jars.
What a handsome collection of secrets they make.

You are something made of smoke and I
cannot catch you with only these hands.
But I am not sure that I would want to if I could.
You have been in my lungs before and you sting.

Something tells me I should be more afraid of you.
You are downright dangerous but I like the odds.
You are destructive but I am self-destructive
so I suppose we are a match made in purgatory.
In which case, saddle up.

64.

I see a cricket skitter
across the porch,
nearing too near to
my feet -- I am
nervous

so I stomp
in its direction, a
warning shot fired,
and it launches
off the steps into
the darkness

and I am reminded
that I am powerful
and I can get
what I want

63.

I hope you read this tonight but I don't
hope you read this tonight because
I will get tangled back up
in your hair, and I have been there
and it is painful (and sweet)
and you will inhabit me again
and I am not ready to host
you, and the things you are not ready
to give me. I would say I
understand, but
I don't. But
I will love you either way
until you cut my strings and I
fall. (And look at me now,
wound around in you just
like I said I didn't want to be.)
Forgive my broken arms
and I will cure your broken
eyes. We could mend
each other, you know.

62.

I wouldn't so much as
touch her if she came
back -- I wouldn't
so much as anything
with her if it meant I
could have
you and I
am tipping vodka
into my tea and I
am thinking of you while
I do it

this is about
you, and they
are all about
you (you
might have guessed that)

because I have
not written you
down in too long,
because I have
been trying to forget
the shape of your name
on paper (but it's
a hard thing
to let go of)

so bring me back
with you when you
come back
if you
come back
if you

(come back)

61.

I would like (a few
cigarettes and cups
of lemon tea) to
pass the time
and count the flickers
in the dark until
you come home
(from wherever you
are), and I would like
(a kiss on the fingertip
or a song down the
spine) to keep the
flickers in the dark
away from my braided
hair. You have
not found me, yet,
but -- I would wager
you will.

60.

I thought I had felt the bite
of life, but I realize now
I was only biting
my nails and biding
my time until something
real came up
behind me

so now I play games
on my knees, and fight
black demons with blacker
smoke, and I have convinced
myself I will win
by running
fastest

and if I can't make
you love me you
can be damned sure
I'll make me
hate me